Shadow of Memory
by LilTigre
Summary: Nightmares come and nightmares go, but the worst of these are the ones that are real. Reeve, and the anniversary of a nightmare. Post-DoC, slight yaoi content


DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, just playing with 'em. And, er, fair warning- descriptions of child abuse inside.

It's a ritual with him, on this day; wash his face, brush his teeth, and strip down to his boxers before knocking back a shot of whatever hard liquor Cait put out for him. It's an odd feeling, sleeping that bare, but there's a small, irrational part of his mind that links those soft, so-worn-they're-fuzzy pajamas with the past, and he can't bear to put them on. The same reason why he can't sleep in a room with barred windows, or in a room that can be locked unless he has the key (and if the key goes missing he'll toss and turn until he gets up and finds it, even though he never locks the door). Associations. Little things, defiled by the shadow of memory.

The comforter and sheets are jerked back almost violently, untucking each end so that there's no way for him to be completely closed in under the blankets (and there was another association, one that came back every year at this time) before flopping back onto the bed and staring up at the ceiling. The dreamcatcher Marlene gave him for his birthday pivots there, above his bed, and he gently taps it with one finger to make it sway. A kind gesture, but futile. He has nightmares every night- always has, always will. The subjects and fears change, but the underlying fears remain the same.

For a long time after Meteor he had nightmares about dying in the ruins of Midgar. Lost, alone, deserted and locked into a Shinra prison cell with no keys, no food, no water- just the ashes of his city burning, burning. Fires danced along the city, across the single barred window that overlooked Midgar, danced with the purity of the Lifestream and the darkness that was JENOVA. Always he heard the screams of the people- _his_ people- dying, dying, fading away like the rest of the world, like he was, a forgotten ghost in the bowels of a dead city. And no one would come, not for him, and why should they in the first place? Double agent, betrayed both sides, a coward who'd never shown courage until that moment on the Sister Ray and was condemned to die for it. To Shinra he was a traitor; to AVALANCHE, he was a small robotic cat, annoying and cute and just _there_. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, for he doesn't exist, never existed. No one came, no one but the rats, gnawing on the rotting corpses, the mako-contaminated glow of their eyes watching him-

In reality, Cait had found him eleven days after Meteorfall, had dug him out of the rubble and ruins (and utterly ruined his Mog doing so). Reeve had been dehydrated, starved, delirious from fever and fear and had fought Cait until the little robot knocked him out with a Sleep materia. When he came to, another week had passed and he was in a makeshift hospital room in Healin Lodge. Another week after that, and he'd thrown himself back into his work, bringing together what would become the WRO- and trying so hard to run away from the nightmares.

Those nightmares, however, are long gone; he hasn't had one of those since Deepground. No, Deepground and Omega WEAPON came with their own set of nightmares. They were, however, distant, not so immediate- easily ignored as just another bad dream. Ride it out, go with the flow, let it run until the movie reel ends. They faded quickly, more quickly than the ones of Meteorfall because they weren't quite as immediate.

And then...

He rolls over onto one side, balling up the comforter and stretching across it like one would a body pillow- or another body. It's been so long since he actually shared a bed with someone that he's forgotten what it feels like, to share warmth and the steady rhythm of heartbeat and breathing. This he is also used to. This is what he deserves. The inevitable sense of loneliness and isolation is emphasized more by the soft hum of Cait cycling through his sleep mode and the purr of his cats in the hallway. He knows why he keeps them, beyond his fondness for the species; they help mask the empty, hollow feel of his penthouse, help fill the void that seems to swallow him whole.

It's that which leads to his current set of night terrors, because his life is changing, changing so rapidly that he can barely cling to it. Gaia is whole. The Lifestream is pure. The WRO is no longer what it was, is no longer needed to act as the guardian of the people. His life is no longer consumed by it... and it's not until it ended that he realized what he'd been doing all those years. Covering up. Hiding. Trying to fill the gaps in his life with work and making amends and letting that emptiness grow ever deeper. And what he wants- _who_ he wants- to fill the void is out of his reach. Always just a few steps ahead. Quiet, elusive.

He's fallen in love with a dream.

Reaching for something beyond his grasp, reaching for the stars while bound to the earth- those nightmares begin the same, every time: they stand across from each other on the crumbling remains of the Sister Ray, with the dying sun's hues matching the exact shade of crimson as Vincent's eyes and the other man's lips soft against his own. It starts so peaceful, so perfect, a moment of release, before the other jerks away, a hard blow snapping his neck hard to one side. He stands there, suddenly ashamed; the hand still raised, the look of fear mixed with fury and some vague form of disgust when the other man licks his lips. But the fury doesn't abate there, but grows into a rage, anger and claws at his throat and a familiar voice (Chaos, his mind whispers, that which will cleanse the world of impurities like you) whispers in his ear, mocking, laughing. _Who do you think you are_, it asks, and _what gives you the right to touch him_ and _look what you've done, you've defiled our Host, how could you even dare_... and all he can do is stand there as Vincent's flesh rots away. Crawls, like Geostigma if it were a living entity, dripping and putrid and it's _his_ touch that's done this. Then he's shoved away, thrown back to the brink of the platform so very, very high up, and Chaos hisses through Vincent's decaying lips and sneers _Do us a favor and fall_ before disappearing into the mist.

And he's stumbling and falling, racing down the broken steps, chasing that elusive flicker of cloak, that faint glimpse of golden claw, his voice raw from begging, pleading, _Don't go, don't leave-_- and then it ends. It always ends the same way, every time- waking up in a cold sweat, panting as if he'd run a marathon, one hand reaching out into the air above him, empty and cold. A constant reminder of how futile his dreams are now, how they'll always be. Grasping at air and coming up empty-handed.

Sleep tonight is proving even more elusive than usual; with a defeated groan he rolls over and picks up the shot glass on the nightstand. Unsteady hands pour another shot, and another, until the smooth burn of the alcohol steadies his hands. Honestly, he would welcome that nightmare tonight. Better that than the one he knows is waiting for him when he finally, finally succumbs to sleep. Better something that never happened to the memory that awaits him now.

It happens every year, around this time; he never realizes he's counting down the days until _that_ day hits and he has to force himself to carry on as normal. It's lessened, over the years, and some years it hits harder than others. He never talks about his childhood. It didn't exist. He came into existence at the age of eleven and the years before that were all just a bad dream, a hallucination, the product of too much mako exposure and stress from work.

At least, that's what he likes to tell himself. The truth, as usual, is far more painful.

This was the day the nightmares ended, and this is the day that they always come back. He flicks the bedside lamp on, letting the pale light wash over the room. The light helps, but only a little; he doesn't have to be asleep for this. The nightmares are memories and the memories are nightmares and every year he has to learn all over again how to force them back out of his mind. It's shadows and faint whispers (_hold still_, the voice says, _be quiet, don't tell_) and phantom fingers cold on his skin; it's suffocating heaviness and searing pain and he's breaking inside; it's fear and shame and it's _wrong_, it's all wrong and he _knows_ it and there's nothing he can do to make it stop. Nothing.

_Nothing._

There's a strangled whimper and it takes a second for Reeve to register that he's the one making the sound. That he's not eleven years old anymore, not in his old bedroom with the fading wallpaper and door that creaked whenever _he_ came in; suddenly realizing that the shadow over him isn't _him_, but cast from the dreamcatcher swaying lazily above his bed. The realization is enough to snap him out of it and he sits up, laughing bitterly as he pulls his knees up to his chest and this wasn't supposed to _be_ this way, the past was supposed to stay dead and _buried_. Gone, hidden, scarred over... not reopened.

He reaches out blindly and jerks the dreamcatcher down, tossing it aside before wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his head atop them. Eventually these too will fade again, like the nightmare of the rooftop, and the nightmare of Midgar... except he's lying to himself because they've never completely faded. The next morning his uncle was gone, his mother was beside him, cleaning the blood and the tears and pretending as if nothing had ever happened. As if the pain of that night (_those years_, his mind whispers, _it was years and you know it_) was a bad dream. It never happened. There were no nights of fear and betrayal, no nights of calloused hands and stale sweat and choking, bitter, bitter like the secrets he still holds inside. Didn't happen. Never happened. It's in moments like this he feels the solitude weighing down on his shoulders, suffocating. When he feels the backs of his eyes prickle and his vision begins to swim, he doesn't fight it, doesn't even try. It hurts less that way, to give in to emotion rather than fighting the air.

Giving in is easier. Fighting alone is hard, too hard, and the shame and fear won't let him even consider asking for help. He was weak- is weak- will always be weak. If he had fought harder; if he'd spoken earlier; so many ifs and so many regrets and he's been forced into silence for so long that he no longer knows how to call for help. So when the memories reach their peak Reeve gives in to the the nightmares, gives into the fear, drowning in the shadows even with the light of the lamp beside him.

It's still a long wait until morning.


End file.
